No Words Needed.

“Ryan, come and help me cook dinner,” Brendon called from the kitchen.

I silently walked out to the kitchen and smiled at him, acknowledging that I had heard him. He smiled back at me, gesturing to the food in front of him. His smile lit up his whole face, making it brilliant to look at.

I was so busy just looking at him that I didn’t notice for a moment what he was cooking but when I did my smile widened. He was making my favourite meal; pork and beans.

I walked around the bench eagerly to stand beside him and began chopping up the bacon into small pieces. We worked with him chattering about his day and me listening, like we do every night.

When he talked to me he never required any sign or signal from me to show I was listening because he knew I always was. Because all I ever did was listen. I’d love to be able to speak but I can’t. It’s not a physical issue, it’s psychological. I’ve only spoken two words in my entire life.

“Mummy! No!” And then all I remember is blacking out. It was my birthday and I was six years old.

Everything before my sixth birthday I don’t remember either. But I was told that I never did speak before then anyway. I had never uttered a word. A visit to a psychologist informed me that I may have experienced a childhood trauma before and on my sixth birthday. I say, no shit.

Not being able to remember it is probably some form of Post Traumatic Stress too, apparently.

The not speaking part is also part of it. Doctors, psychologists and psychiatrists tried every test they had, every trick they knew, everything. But none of it worked. Every time I just ended up in the back of a paramedic’s van.

Every time, I had a panic attack. I started hyperventilating and would then just black out. Every time I would wake up to Brendon’s face looking down at me, stroking my hair.

Even being hypnotised didn’t work. I wouldn’t speak; I would just somehow find a notepad and pen and just write down what normal people would have just voiced. I’ve amazed many in the medical field with my “condition”.

Before all the tests to get me to speak, there were other tests to see if I was able to speak. And technically, physically, I should be able to. But there’s some mental block that prevents me. A shortage in the switch somewhere.

I don’t know how to explain it exactly. All I know is that: one, I’ve only ever spoken two words in my entire twenty years of life. Two, I am without both parents and know why but can’t remember, even though I was there and witnessed it happen. And three, that I have a panic attack whenever I even think of speaking vocally.

“Ryan, you with me?” Brendon waved his hand in front of my face, laughing at my blank expression. I nodded, smiling and shaking my head at myself.

“I asked if you could drain the pasta,” he repeated, stroking my cheek.

Turning to the oven, I picked up the saucepan of hot water and drained in down the sink being careful not to spill any on myself.

“Can you go pick out a movie for us to watch, honey?”

I gave Brendon a kiss on the cheek in reply and went to the lounge room. We had heaps of movies so there was a lot to choose from. A yawn escaped my mouth; I was quite tired from work.

As I looked through the DVD’s I thought about my day. It had been uneventful, like always. I did office work and everyone communicated with me through post-it notes and emails. I wanted to sue the person who invented bloody post-it notes.

Working with computers is easy though, they don’t require you to speak at all. You just type and that’s the way to communicate. My co-workers all knew about my inability to speak and they were all nice about it, respectful of me even. They never teased or bullied me, like people in my high school had. My co-workers were actually quite helpful.

“Have you picked anything out yet?” Brendon asked quietly from the doorway. He was leaning against the frame of the door and smiling at me. I couldn’t help but notice how gorgeous he was. Shaking my head, I gave him a weak smile.

“You’re really off with the fairies today. Are you okay?” He sounded concerned but I knew he wasn’t really. When he was concerned I could see it in his eyes. I was off with the fairies a lot so he wasn’t too bothered by it. He was just accustomed to it. And I would have written a note or something to him if I was upset.

I nodded earnestly and picked out the first movie I laid my eyes on. Finding Nemo. I smiled because I loved this movie. It’s one of my favourites.

Brendon rolled his eyes. “Not again. We’ve watched that more times than I can count,” he laughed.

Giving him the puppy dog eyes, I held the movie to my face in a begging fashion.

He looked at me for a few moments before caving. “Oh, alright then. Put it on. Dinner will be up soon.”

I smiled triumphantly and put the movie on. I left it on the main menu before visiting the toilet; I needed to pee. After I was done, I washed my hands and began to walk back out to the lounge room but my clumsy legs had other plans.

One of my ankles twisted below me and I was tempted to let rip a scream when I fell to the ground. Blinding white-hot pain seared straight through my head. I wanted to call for Brennie, my Brennie. But as soon as I thought it my breathing started getting faster.

Quickly, I banished the thought, in case I blacked out completely, and looked around desperately for something to make some noise with. It was so hard to concentrate though. I was starting to suspect that it wasn’t just a sprained ankle.

Fuck. It was times like these where I wish that I could just speak like a normal person could. A normal person, by now, would have called for help.

The toilet brush was in reach so I grabbed it and started banging it against the wall as hard as I could.

“Ryan? Ryan!” Footsteps rushed down the hallway and he was in front of me. My Brennie.

“Oh baby, what have you done?” he mumbled. I pointed to my ankle and he inspected it, poking and prodding at different areas. I winced every time. Brendon knew first aid so I knew he knew what he was doing.

“Come on, we need to go to the hospital,” he finally sighed. “I’ll carry you out to the couch, put some pork and beans into a container and we’ll go.”

I sat on the couch with some ice wishing I could say something to assure him. But I couldn’t. I could see the worry lines etched into his forehead, showing just how worried he was. He had a habit of overreacting and over-thinking things.

When he walked past, I ignored the pain in my ankle and leant forward to grab at the bottom of his shirt. He stopped abruptly and looked down at me questioningly.

“Yeah, babe?”

I beckoned for him to come down to my level and when he did I pressed my lips to his. When we stopped kissing I smiled at him warmly, hoping he could see how much I loved him.

“I love you too, Ryan,” he whispered. He knew my face so well. I grinned at him, confirming that that was what I was thinking.

I don’t need words to express what I feel. I still have my body language and, statistically, body language makes up eighty percent of all communication. So speech, to me, doesn’t matter much. I can get what I want to say across with my body, my expressions.

Words are tools that I can live without.